The Works of George Bernard Shaw: Candida, The Man of Destiny, The Devil's Disciple, The Irrational Knot, Man and Superman, and More (36 Books With Active Table of Contents)

The Irrational Knot Being the Second Novel of His Nonage

The Irrational Knot

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DIE TORICHTE HEIRAT (The Irrational Knot)

The irrational knot, being the second novel of his nonage

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THE IRRATIONAL KNOT

BY BERNARD SHAW BEING

THE SECOND NOVELOF HIS NONAGE

1905

PREFACE

TO THE AMERICAN EDITION OF 1905

This novel was written in the year 1880, only a few years after I hadexported myself from Dublin to London in a condition of extreme rawnessand inexperience concerning the specifically English side of the lifewith which the book pretends to deal. Everybody wrote novels then. Itwas my second attempt; and it shared the fate of my first. That is tosay, nobody would publish it, though I tried all the London publishersand some American ones. And I should not greatly blame them if I couldfeel sure that it was the book's faults and not its qualities thatrepelled them.

I have narrated elsewhere how in the course of time the rejected MS.became Mrs. Annie Besant's excuse for lending me her ever helping handby publishing it as a serial in a little propagandist magazine of hers.That was how it got loose beyond all possibility of recapture. It is outof my power now to stand between it and the American public: all I cando is to rescue it from unauthorized mutilations and make the best of ajejune job.

At present, of course, I am not the author of The Irrational Knot.Physiologists inform us that the substance of our bodies (andconsequently of our souls) is shed and renewed at such a rate that nopart of us lasts longer than eight years: I am therefore not now in anyatom of me the person who wrote The Irrational Knot in 1880. The lastof that author perished in 1888; and two of his successors have sincejoined the majority. Fourth of his line, I cannot be expected to takeany very lively interest in the novels of my literary great-grandfather.Even my personal recollections of him are becoming vague and overlaidwith those most misleading of all traditions, the traditions founded onthe lies a man tells, and at last comes to believe, about himself _to_himself. Certain things, however, I remember very well. For instance, Iam significantly clear as to the price of the paper on which I wrote TheIrrational Knot. It was cheap--a white demy of unpretentious quality--sothat sixpennorth lasted a long time. My daily allowance of compositionwas five pages of this demy in quarto; and I held my natural lazinesssternly to that task day in, day out, to the end. I remember also thatBizet's Carmen being then new in London, I used it as a safety-valve formy romantic impulses. When I was tired of the sordid realism ofWhatshisname (I have sent my only copy of The Irrational Knot to theprinters, and cannot remember the name of my hero) I went to the pianoand forgot him in the glamorous society of Carmen and her crimsontoreador and yellow dragoon. Not that Bizet's music could infatuate meas it infatuated Nietzsche. Nursed on greater masters, I thought less ofhim than he deserved; but the Carmen music was--in places--exquisite ofits kind, and could enchant a man like me, romantic enough to have cometo the end of romance before I began to create in art for myself.

When I say that _I_ did and felt these things, I mean, of course, thatthe predecessor whose name I bear did and felt them. The I of to-day is(? am) cool towards Carmen; and Carmen, I regret to say, does not takethe slightest interest in him (? me). And now enough of this jugglingwith past and present Shaws. The grammatical complications of being afirst person and several extinct third persons at the same moment are sofrightful that I must return to the ordinary misusage, and ask thereader to make the necessary corrections in his or her own mind.

This book is not wholly a compound of intuition and ignorance. Take forexample the profession of my hero, an Irish-American electricalengineer. That was by no means a flight of fancy. For you must notsuppose, because I am a man of letters, that I never tried to earn anhonest living. I began trying to commit that sin against my nature whenI was fifteen, and persevered, from youthful timidity and diffidence,until I was twenty-three. My last attempt was in 1879, when a companywas formed in London to exploit an ingenious invention by Mr. ThomasAlva Edison--a much too ingenious invention as it proved, being nothingless than a telephone of such stentorian efficiency that it bellowedyour most private communications all over the house instead ofwhispering them with some sort of discretion. This was not what theBritish stockbroker wanted; so the company was soon merged in theNational Telephone Company, after making a place for itself in thehistory of literature, quite unintentionally, by providing me with ajob. Whilst the Edison Telephone Company lasted, it crowded the basementof a huge pile of offices in Queen Victoria Street with Americanartificers. These deluded and romantic men gave me a glimpse of theskilled proletariat of the United States. They sang obsolete sentimentalsongs with genuine emotion; and their language was frightful even to anIrishman. They worked with a ferocious energy which was out of allproportion to the actual result achieved. Indomitably resolved to asserttheir republican manhood by taking no orders from a tall-hattedEnglishman whose stiff politeness covered his conviction that they were,relatively to himself, inferior and common persons, they insisted onbeing slave-driven with genuine American oaths by a genuine free andequal American foreman. They utterly despised the artfully slow Britishworkman who did as little for his wages as he possibly could; neverhurried himself; and had a deep reverence for anyone whose pocket couldbe tapped by respectful behavior. Need I add that they werecontemptuously wondered at by this same British workman as a parcel ofoutlandish adult boys, who sweated themselves for their employer'sbenefit instead of looking after their own interests? They adored Mr.Edison as the greatest man of all time in every possible department ofscience, art and philosophy, and execrated Mr. Graham Bell, the inventorof the rival telephone, as his Satanic adversary; but each of them had(or pretended to have) on the brink of completion, an improvement on thetelephone, usually a new transmitter. They were free-souled creatures,excellent company: sensitive, cheerful, and profane; liars, braggarts,and hustlers; with an air of making slow old England hum which neverleft them even when, as often happened, they were wrestling withdifficulties of their own making, or struggling in no-thoroughfares fromwhich they had to be retrieved like strayed sheep by Englishmen withoutimagination enough to go wrong.

In this environment I remained for some months. As I was interested inphysics and had read Tyndall and Helmholtz, besides having learntsomething in Ireland through a fortunate friendship with a cousin of Mr.Graham Bell who was also a chemist and physicist, I was, I believe, theonly person in the entire establishment who knew the current scientificexplanation of telephony; and as I soon struck up a friendship with ourofficial lecturer, a Colchester man whose strong point waspre-scientific agriculture, I often discharged his duties for him in amanner which, I am persuaded, laid the foundation of Mr. Edison's Londonreputation: my sole reward being my boyish delight in the half-concealedincredulity of our visitors (who were convinced by the hoarselystartling utterances of the telephone that the speaker, alleged by me tobe twenty miles away, was really using a speaking-trumpet in the nextroom), and their obvious uncertainty, when the demonstration was over,as to whether they ought to tip me or not: a question they eitherdecided in the negative or never decided at all; for I never gotanything.

So much for my electrical engineer! To get him into contact withfashionable society before he became famous was also a problem easilysolved. I knew of three English peers who actually preferred physicallaboratories to stables, and scientific experts to gamekeepers: in fact,one of the experts was a friend of mine. And I knew from personalexperience that if science brings men of all ranks into contact, art,especially music, does the same for men and women. An electrician whocan play an accompaniment can go anywhere and know anybody. As far asmere access and acquaintance go there are no class barriers for him. Mydifficulty was not to get my hero into society, but to give any sort ofplausibility to my picture of society when I got him into it. I lackedthe touch of the literary diner-out; and I had, as the reader willprobably find to his cost, the classical tradition which makes all thepersons in a novel, except the comically vernacular ones, or thespeakers of phonetically spelt dialect, utter themselves in the formalphrases and studied syntax of eighteenth century rhetoric. In short, Iwrote in the style of Scott and Dickens; and as fashionable society thenspoke and behaved, as it still does, in no style at all, mytranscriptions of Oxford and Mayfair may nowadays suggest anunaccountable and ludicrous ignorance of a very superficial andaccessible code of manners. I was not, however, so ignorant as mighthave been inferred at that time from my somewhat desperate financialcondition.

I had, to begin with, a sort of backstairs knowledge; for in my teens Istruggled for life in the office of an Irish gentleman who acted as landagent and private banker for many persons of distinction. Now it ispossible for a London author to dine out in the highest circles fortwenty years without learning as much about the human frailties of hishosts as the family solicitor or (in Ireland) the family land agentlearns in twenty days; and some of this knowledge inevitably reaches hisclerks, especially the clerk who keeps the cash, which was my particulardepartment. He learns, if capable of the lesson, that the aristocraticprofession has as few geniuses as any other profession; so that if youwant a peerage of more than, say, half a dozen members, you must fill itup with many common persons, and even with some deplorably mean ones.For "service is no inheritance" either in the kitchen or the House ofLords; and the case presented by Mr. Barrie in his play of The AdmirableCrichton, where the butler is the man of quality, and his master, theEarl, the man of rank, is no fantasy, but a quite common occurrence, andindeed to some extent an inevitable one, because the English areextremely particular in selecting their butlers, whilst they do notselect their barons at all, taking them as the accident of birth sendsthem. The consequences include much ironic comedy. For instance, we havein England a curious belief in first rate people, meaning all the peoplewe do not know; and this consoles us for the undeniable secondratenessof the people we do know, besides saving the credit of aristocracy as aninstitution. The unmet aristocrat is devoutly believed in; but he isalways round the corner, never at hand. That _the_ smart set exists;that there is above and beyond that smart set a class so blue of bloodand exquisite in nature that it looks down even on the King with haughtycondescension; that scepticism on these points is one of the stigmata ofplebeian baseness: all these imaginings are so common here that theyconstitute the real popular sociology of England as much as an unlimitedcredulity as to vaccination constitutes the real popular science ofEngland. It is, of course, a timid superstition. A British peer orpeeress who happens by chance to be genuinely noble is just as isolatedat court as Goethe would have been among all the other grandsons ofpublicans, if they had formed a distinct class in Frankfurt or Weimar.This I knew very well when I wrote my novels; and if, as I suspect, Ifailed to create a convincingly verisimilar atmosphere of aristocracy,it was not because I had any illusions or ignorances as to the commonhumanity of the peerage, and not because I gave literary style to itsconversation, but because, as I had never had any money, I was foolishlyindifferent to it, and so, having blinded myself to its enormousimportance, necessarily missed the point of view, and with it the wholemoral basis, of the class which rightly values money, and plenty of it,as the first condition of a bearable life.

Money is indeed the most important thing in the world; and all sound andsuccessful personal and national morality should have this fact for itsbasis. Every teacher or twaddler who denies it or suppresses it, is anenemy of life. Money controls morality; and what makes the United Statesof America look so foolish even in foolish Europe is that they arealways in a state of flurried concern and violent interference withmorality, whereas they throw their money into the street to be scrambledfor, and presently find that their cash reserves are not in their ownhands, but in the pockets of a few millionaires who, bewildered by theirluck, and unspeakably incapable of making any truly economic use of it,endeavor to "do good" with it by letting themselves be fleeced byphilanthropic committee men, building contractors, librarians andprofessors, in the name of education, science, art and what not; so thatsensible people exhale relievedly when the pious millionaire dies, andhis heirs, demoralized by being brought up on his outrageous income,begin the socially beneficent work of scattering his fortune through thechannels of the trades that flourish by riotous living.

This, as I have said, I did not then understand; for I knew money onlyby the want of it. Ireland is a poor country; and my father was a poorman in a poor country. By this I do not mean that he was hungry andhomeless, a hewer of wood and a drawer of water. My friend Mr. JamesHuneker, a man of gorgeous imagination and incorrigible romanticism, hasdescribed me to the American public as a peasant lad who has raisedhimself, as all American presidents are assumed to have raisedthemselves, from the humblest departments of manual labor to theloftiest eminence. James flatters me. Had I been born a peasant, Ishould now be a tramp. My notion of my father's income is even vaguerthan his own was--and that is saying a good deal--but he always had anincome of at least three figures (four, if you count in dollars insteadof pounds); and what made him poor was that he conceived himself as bornto a social position which even in Ireland could have been maintained indignified comfort only on twice or thrice what he had. And he married onthat assumption. Fortunately for me, social opportunity is not always tobe measured by income. There is an important economic factor, firstanalyzed by an American economist (General Walker), and called rent ofability. Now this rent, when the ability is of the artistic or politicalsort, is often paid in kind. For example, a London possessor of suchability may, with barely enough money to maintain a furnished bedroomand a single presentable suit of clothes, see everything worth seeingthat a millionaire can see, and know everybody worth knowing that he canknow. Long before I reached this point myself, a very triflingaccomplishment gave me glimpses of the sort of fashionable life apeasant never sees. Thus I remember one evening during the novel-writingperiod when nobody would pay a farthing for a stroke of my pen, walkingalong Sloane Street in that blessed shield of literary shabbiness,evening dress. A man accosted me with an eloquent appeal for help,ending with the assurance that he had not a penny in the world. Ireplied, with exact truth, "Neither have I." He thanked me civilly, andwent away, apparently not in the least surprised, leaving me to askmyself why I did not turn beggar too, since I felt sure that a man whodid it as well as he, must be in comfortable circumstances.

Another reminiscence. A little past midnight, in the same costume, I wasturning from Piccadilly into Bond Street, when a lady of the pavement,out of luck that evening so far, confided to me that the last bus forBrompton had passed, and that she should be grateful to any gentlemanwho would give her a lift in a hansom. My old-fashioned Irish gallantryhad not then been worn off by age and England: besides, as a novelistwho could find no publisher, I was touched by the similarity of ourtrades and predicaments. I excused myself very politely on the groundthat my wife (invented for the occasion) was waiting for me at home, andthat I felt sure so attractive a lady would have no difficulty infinding another escort. Unfortunately this speech made so favorable animpression on her that she immediately took my arm and declared herwillingness to go anywhere with me, on the flattering ground that I wasa perfect gentleman. In vain did I try to persuade her that in coming upBond Street and deserting Piccadilly, she was throwing away her lastchance of a hansom: she attached herself so devotedly to me that I couldnot without actual violence shake her off. At last I made a stand at theend of Old Bond Street. I took out my purse; opened it; and held itupside down. Her countenance fell, poor girl! She turned on her heelwith a melancholy flirt of her skirt, and vanished.

Now on both these occasions I had been in the company of people whospent at least as much in a week as I did in a year. Why was I, apenniless and unknown young man, admitted there? Simply because, thoughI was an execrable pianist, and never improved until the happyinvention of the pianola made a Paderewski of me, I could play a simpleaccompaniment at sight more congenially to a singer than most amateurs.It is true that the musical side of London society, with its streak ofBohemianism, and its necessary toleration of foreign ways andprofessional manners, is far less typically English than the sportingside or the political side or the Philistine side; so much so, indeed,that people may and do pass their lives in it without ever discoveringwhat English plutocracy in the mass is really like: still, if you wanderin it nocturnally for a fitful year or so as I did, with empty pocketsand an utter impossibility of approaching it by daylight (owing to thedeplorable decay of the morning wardrobe), you have something moreactual to go on than the hallucinations of a peasant lad setting hisfoot manfully on the lowest rung of the social ladder. I never climbedany ladder: I have achieved eminence by sheer gravitation; and I herebywarn all peasant lads not to be duped by my pretended example intoregarding their present servitude as a practicable first step to acelebrity so dazzling that its subject cannot even suppress his own badnovels.

Conceive me then at the writing of The Irrational Knot as a personneither belonging to the world I describe nor wholly ignorant of it, andon certain points quite incapable of conceiving it intuitively. A wholeworld of art which did not exist for it lay open to me. I was familiarwith the greatest in that world: mighty poets, painters, and musicianswere my intimates. I found the world of artificial greatness founded onconvention and money so repugnant and contemptible by comparison that Ihad no sympathetic understanding of it. People are fond of blamingvalets because no man is a hero to his valet. But it is equally truethat no man is a valet to his hero; and the hero, consequently, is aptto blunder very ludicrously about valets, through judging them from anirrelevant standard of heroism: heroism, remember, having its faults aswell as its qualities. I, always on the heroic plane imaginatively, hadtwo disgusting faults which I did not recognize as faults because Icould not help them. I was poor and (by day) shabby. I thereforetolerated the gross error that poverty, though an inconvenience and atrial, is not a sin and a disgrace; and I stood for my self-respect onthe things I had: probity, ability, knowledge of art, laboriousness, andwhatever else came cheaply to me. Because I could walk into HamptonCourt Palace and the National Gallery (on free days) and enjoy Mantegnaand Michael Angelo whilst millionaires were yawning miserably over ineptgluttonies; because I could suffer more by hearing a movement ofBeethoven's Ninth Symphony taken at a wrong tempo than a duchess bylosing a diamond necklace, I was indifferent to the repulsive fact thatif I had fallen in love with the duchess I did not possess a morningsuit in which I could reasonably have expected her to touch me with thefurthest protended pair of tongs; and I did not see that to remedy thisI should have been prepared to wade through seas of other people'sblood. Indeed it is this perception which constitutes an aristocracynowadays. It is the secret of all our governing classes, which consistfinally of people who, though perfectly prepared to be generous, humane,cultured, philanthropic, public spirited and personally charming in thesecond instance, are unalterably resolved, in the first, to have moneyenough for a handsome and delicate life, and will, in pursuit of thatmoney, batter in the doors of their fellow men, sell them up, sweat themin fetid dens, shoot, stab, hang, imprison, sink, burn and destroy themin the name of law and order. And this shews their fundamental sanityand rightmindedness; for a sufficient income is indispensable to thepractice of virtue; and the man who will let any unselfish considerationstand between him and its attainment is a weakling, a dupe and apredestined slave. If I could convince our impecunious mobs of this, theworld would be reformed before the end of the week; for the sluggardswho are content to be wealthy without working and the dastards who arecontent to work without being wealthy, together with all thepseudo-moralists and ethicists and cowardice mongers generally, would beexterminated without shrift, to the unutterable enlargement of life andennoblement of humanity. We might even make some beginnings ofcivilization under such happy circumstances.

In the days of The Irrational Knot I had not learnt this lesson;consequently I did not understand the British peerage, just as I did notunderstand that glorious and beautiful phenomenon, the "heartless" richAmerican woman, who so thoroughly and admirably understands thatconscience is a luxury, and should be indulged in only when the vitalneeds of life have been abundantly satisfied. The instinct which has ledthe British peerage to fortify itself by American alliances is healthyand well inspired. Thanks to it, we shall still have a few people tomaintain the tradition of a handsome, free, proud, costly life, whilstthe craven mass of us are keeping up our starveling pretence that it ismore important to be good than to be rich, and piously cheating,robbing, and murdering one another by doing our duty as policemen,soldiers, bailiffs, jurymen, turnkeys, hangmen, tradesmen, and curates,at the command of those who know that the golden grapes are _not_ sour.Why, good heavens! we shall all pretend that this straightforward truthof mine is mere Swiftian satire, because it would require a littlecourage to take it seriously and either act on it or make me drink thehemlock for uttering it.

There was the less excuse for my blindness because I was at that verymoment laying the foundations of my high fortune by the most ruthlessdisregard of all the quack duties which lead the peasant lad of fictionto the White House, and harness the real peasant boy to the plough untilhe is finally swept, as rubbish, into the workhouse. I was an ablebodiedand ableminded young man in the strength of my youth; and my family,then heavily embarrassed, needed my help urgently. That I should havechosen to be a burden to them instead was, according to all theconventions of peasant lad fiction, monstrous. Well, without a blush Iembraced the monstrosity. I did not throw myself into the struggle forlife: I threw my mother into it. I was not a staff to my father's oldage: I hung on to his coat tails. His reward was to live just longenough to read a review of one of these silly novels written in anobscure journal by a personal friend of my own (now eminent inliterature as Mr. John Mackinnon Robertson) prefiguring me to someextent as a considerable author. I think, myself, that this was ahandsome reward, far better worth having than a nice pension from adutiful son struggling slavishly for his parent's bread in some sordidtrade. Handsome or not, it was the only return he ever had for thelittle pension he contrived to export from Ireland for his family. Mymother reinforced it by drudging in her elder years at the art of musicwhich she had followed in her prime freely for love. I only helped tospend it. People wondered at my heartlessness: one young and romanticlady had the courage to remonstrate openly and indignantly with me, "forthe which" as Pepys said of the shipwright's wife who refused hisadvances, "I did respect her." Callous as Comus to moral babble, Isteadily wrote my five pages a day and made a man of myself (at mymother's expense) instead of a slave. And I protest that I will notsuffer James Huneker or any romanticist to pass me off as a peasant boyqualifying for a chapter in Smiles's Self Help, or a good son supportinga helpless mother, instead of a stupendously selfish artist leaning withthe full weight of his hungry body on an energetic and capable woman.No, James: such lies are not only unnecessary, but fearfully depressingand fundamentally immoral, besides being hardly fair to the supposedpeasant lad's parents. My mother worked for my living instead ofpreaching that it was my duty to work for hers: therefore take off yourhat to her, and blush.[A]

It is now open to anyone who pleases to read The Irrational Knot. I donot recommend him to; but it is possible that the same mysterious forcewhich drove me through the labor of writing it may have had some purposewhich will sustain others through the labor of reading it, and evenreward them with some ghastly enjoyment of it. For my own part I cannotstand it. It is to me only one of the heaps of spoiled material thatall apprenticeship involves. I consent to its publication because Iremember that British colonel who called on Beethoven when the elderlycomposer was working at his posthumous quartets, and offered him acommission for a work in the style of his jejune septet. Beethoven drovethe Colonel out of the house with objurgation. I think that was uncivil.There is a time for the septet, and a time for the posthumous quartets.It is true that if a man called on me now and asked me to writesomething like The Irrational Knot I should have to exercise greatself-control. But there are people who read Man and Superman, and thentell me (actually to my face) that I have never done anything so good asCashel Byron's Profession. After this, there may be a public for evenThe Irrational Knot; so let it go.

LONDON, _May_ 26, 1905.

[Footnote A: James, having read the above in proof, now protests henever called me a peasant lad: that being a decoration by thesub-editor. The expression he used was "a poor lad." This is what Jamescalls tact. After all, there is something pastoral, elemental, wellaerated, about a peasant lad. But a mere poor lad! really, James,_really_--!!!]

P.S.--Since writing the above I have looked through the proof-sheets ofthis book, and found, with some access of respect for my youth, that itis a fiction of the first order. By this I do not mean that it is amasterpiece in that order, or even a pleasant example of it, but simplythat, such as it is, it is one of those fictions in which the moralityis original and not readymade. Now this quality is the true diagnosticof the first order in literature, and indeed in all the arts, includingthe art of life. It is, for example, the distinction that setsShakespear's Hamlet above his other plays, and that sets Ibsen's work asa whole above Shakespear's work as a whole. Shakespear's morality is amere reach-me-down; and because Hamlet does not feel comfortable in it,and struggles against the misfit, he suggests something better, futileas his struggle is, and incompetent as Shakespear shews himself in hiseffort to think out the revolt of his feeling against readymademorality. Ibsen's morality is original all through: he knows well thatthe men in the street have no use for principles, because they canneither understand nor apply them; and that what they can understand andapply are arbitrary rules of conduct, often frightfully destructive andinhuman, but at least definite rules enabling the common stupid man toknow where he stands and what he may do and not do without getting intotrouble. Now to all writers of the first order, these rules, and theneed for them produced by the moral and intellectual incompetence of theordinary human animal, are no more invariably beneficial and respectablethan the sunlight which ripens the wheat in Sussex and leaves the desertdeadly in Sahara, making the cheeks of the ploughman's child rosy in themorning and striking the ploughman brainsick or dead in the afternoon;no more inspired (and no less) than the religion of the Andamanislanders; as much in need of frequent throwing away and replacement asthe community's boots. By writers of the second order the readymademorality is accepted as the basis of all moral judgment and criticism ofthe characters they portray, even when their genius forces them torepresent their most attractive heroes and heroines as violating thereadymade code in all directions. Far be it from me to pretend that thefirst order is more readable than the second! Shakespear, Scott,Dickens, Dumas _pere_ are not, to say the least, less readable thanEuripides and Ibsen. Nor is the first order always more constructive;for Byron, Oscar Wilde, and Larochefoucauld did not get further inpositive philosophy than Ruskin and Carlyle, though they could snuffRuskin's Seven Lamps with their fingers without flinching. Still, thefirst order remains the first order and the second the second for allthat: no man who shuts his eyes and opens his mouth when religion andmorality are offered to him on a long spoon can share the sameParnassian bench with those who make an original contribution toreligion and morality, were it only a criticism.

Therefore on coming back to this Irrational Knot as a stranger after 25years, I am proud to find that its morality is not readymade. Thedrunken prima donna of a bygone type of musical burlesque is notdepicted as an immoral person, but as a person with a morality of herown, no worse in its way than the morality of her highly respectablewine merchant in _its_ way. The sociology of the successful inventor ishis own sociology too; and it is by his originality in this respect thathe passes irresistibly through all the readymade prejudices that are setup to bar his promotion. And the heroine, nice, amiable, benevolent, andanxious to please and behave well, but hopelessly secondhand in hermorals and nicenesses, and consequently without any real moral force nowthat the threat of hell has lost its terrors for her, is left destituteamong the failures which are so puzzling to thoughtless people. "Icannot understand why she is so unlucky: she is such a nice woman!":that is the formula. As if people with any force in them ever werealtogether nice!

And so I claim the first order for this jejune exploit of mine, andinvite you to note that the final chapter, so remote from Scott andDickens and so close to Ibsen, was written years before Ibsen came tomy knowledge, thus proving that the revolt of the Life Force againstreadymade morality in the nineteenth century was not the work of aNorwegian microbe, but would have worked itself into expression inEnglish literature had Norway never existed. In fact, when Miss Lord'stranslation of A Doll's House appeared in the eighteen-eighties, and soexcited some of my Socialist friends that they got up a private readingof it in which I was cast for the part of Krogstad, its novelty as amorally original study of a marriage did not stagger me as it staggeredEurope. I had made a morally original study of a marriage myself, andmade it, too, without any melodramatic forgeries, spinal diseases, andsuicides, though I had to confess to a study of dipsomania. At allevents, I chattered and ate caramels in the back drawing-room (ourgreen-room) whilst Eleanor Marx, as Nora, brought Helmer to book at theother side of the folding doors. Indeed I concerned myself very littleabout Ibsen until, later on, William Archer translated Peer Gynt to me_viva voce_, when the magic of the great poet opened my eyes in a flashto the importance of the social philosopher.

I seriously suggest that The Irrational Knot may be regarded as an earlyattempt on the part of the Life Force to write A Doll's House in Englishby the instrumentality of a very immature writer aged 24. And though Isay it that should not, the choice was not such a bad shot for a stupidinstinctive force that has to work and become conscious of itself bymeans of human brains. If we could only realize that though the LifeForce supplies us with its own purpose, it has no other brains to workwith than those it has painfully and imperfectly evolved in our heads,the peoples of the earth would learn some pity for their gods; and weshould have a religion that would not be contradicted at every turn bythe thing that is giving the lie to the thing that ought to be.

WELWYN, _Sunday, June_ 25, 1905.

BOOK I

THE IRRATIONAL KNOT

CHAPTER I

At seven o'clock on a fine evening in April the gas had just beenlighted in a room on the first floor of a house in York Road, Lambeth. Aman, recently washed and brushed, stood on the hearthrug before a pierglass, arranging a white necktie, part of his evening dress. He wasabout thirty, well grown, and fully developed muscularly. There was nocloud of vice or trouble upon him: he was concentrated and calm, makingno tentative movements of any sort (even a white tie did not puzzle himinto fumbling), but acting with a certainty of aim and consequenteconomy of force, dreadful to the irresolute. His face was brown, buthis auburn hair classed him as a fair man.

The apartment, a drawing-room with two windows, was dusty and untidy.The paint and wall paper had not been renewed for years; nor did thepianette, which stood near the fireplace, seem to have been closedduring that time; for the interior was dusty, and the inner end of everykey begrimed. On a table between the windows were some tea things, witha heap of milliner's materials, and a brass candlestick which had beenpushed back to make room for a partially unfolded cloth. There was asecond table near the door, crowded with coils, batteries, agalvanometer, and other electrical apparatus. The mantelpiece waslittered with dusty letters, and two trays of Doulton ware whichornamented it were filled with accounts, scraps of twine, buttons, andrusty keys.

A shifting, rustling sound, as of somebody dressing, which had beenaudible for some minutes through the folding doors, now ceased, and ahandsome young woman entered. She had thick black hair, fine dark eyes,an oval face, a clear olive complexion, and an elastic figure. She wasincompletely attired in a petticoat that did not hide her ankles, andstays of bright red silk with white laces and seams. Quite unconcernedat the presence of the man, she poured out a cup of tea; carried it tothe mantelpiece; and began to arrange her hair before the glass. He,without looking round, completed the arrangement of his tie, looked atit earnestly for a moment, and said, "Have you got a pin about you?"

"There is one in the pincushion on my table," she said; "but I thinkit's a black one. I dont know where the deuce all the pins go to." Then,casting off the subject, she whistled a long and florid cadenza, andadded, by way of instrumental interlude, a remarkably close imitation ofa violoncello. Meanwhile the man went into her room for the pin. On hisreturn she suddenly became curious, and said, "Where are you goingto-night, if one may ask?"

"I am going out."

She looked at him for a moment, and turned contemptuously to the mirror,saying, "Thank you. Sorry to be inquisitive."

"I am going to sing for the Countess of Carbury at a concert atWandsworth."

"Sing! You! The Countess of Barbury! Does she live at Wandsworth?"

"No. She lives in Park Lane."

"Oh! I beg her pardon." The man made no comment on this; and she, afterlooking doubtfully at him to assure herself that he was in earnest,continued, "How does the Countess of Whatshername come to know _you_,pray?"

"Why not?"

A long pause ensued. Then she said: "Stuff!", but without conviction.Her exclamation had no apparent effect on him until he had buttoned hiswaistcoat and arranged his watch-chain. Then he glanced at a sheet ofpink paper which lay on the mantelpiece. She snatched it at once; openedit; stared incredulously at it; and said, "Pink paper, and scallopededges! How filthily vulgar! I thought she was not much of a Countess!Ahem! 'Music for the People. Parnassus Society. A concert will be givenat the Town Hall, Wandsworth, on Tuesday, the 25th April, by theCountess of Carbury, assisted by the following ladies and gentlemen.Miss Elinor McQuinch'--what a name! 'Miss Marian Lind'--who's MissMarian Lind?"

"How should I know?"

"I only thought, as she is a pal of the Countess, that you would mostlikely be intimate with her. 'Mrs. Leith Fairfax.' There is a Mrs. LeithFairfax who writes novels, and very rotten novels they are, too. Who arethe gentlemen? 'Mr. Marmaduke Lind'--brother to Miss Marian, I suppose.'Mr. Edward Conolly'--save the mark! they must have been rather hard upfor gentlemen when they put _you_ down as one. The Conolly family islooking up at last. Hm! nearly a dozen altogether. 'Tickets will bedistributed to the families of working men by the Rev. GeorgeLind'--pity they didnt engage Jenny Lind on purpose to sing with you. 'Alimited number of front seats at one shilling. Please turn over. Part I.Symphony in F: Haydn. Arranged for four English concertinas by JuliusBaker. Mr. Julius Baker; Master Julius Abt Baker; Miss Lisette Baker(aged 8); and Miss Totty Baker (aged 6-1/2)'. Good Lord! 'Song: Rosesoftly blooming: Spohr. Miss Marian Lind.' I wonder whether she cansing! 'Polonaise in A flat major: Chopin'--what rot! As if workingpeople cared about Chopin! Miss Elinor McQuinch is a fool, I see. 'Song:The Valley: Gounod.' Of course: I knew you would try that. Oho! Here'ssomething sensible at last. 'Nigger melody. Uncle Ned. Mr. MarmadukeLind, accompanied by himself on the banjo.'

Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum, drum. Dum-- 'And there was an ole nigga; and his name was Uncle Ned; An' him dead long ago, long ago. An' he had no hair on the top of his head In the place where the wool ought to grow,'

Mr. Marmaduke Lind will get a double _encore_; and no one will take theleast notice of you or the others. 'Recitation. The Faithful Soul.Adelaide Proctor. Mrs. Leith Fairfax.' Well, this certainly is a blessedattempt to amuse Wandsworth. _Another_ reading by the Rev.----"

Here Conolly, who had been putting on his overcoat, picked the programdeftly from his sister's fingers, and left the room. She, after damninghim very heartily, returned to the glass, and continued dressing,taking her tea at intervals until she was ready to go out, when she sentfor a cab, and bade the driver convey her to the Bijou Theatre, Soho.

Conolly, on arriving at the Wandsworth Town Hall, was directed to acommittee room, which served as green-room on this occasion. He wasgreeted by a clean shaven young clergyman who protested that he was gladto see him there, but did not offer his hand. Conolly thanked himbriefly, and went without further ceremony to the table, and was aboutto place his hat and overcoat on a heap of similar garments, when,observing that there were some hooks along the wall, he immediatelycrossed over and hung up his things on them, thereby producing anunderbred effect of being more prudent and observant than the rest. Thenhe looked at his program, and calculated how soon his turn to sing wouldcome. Then he unrolled his music, and placed two copies of Le Vallonready to his hand upon the table. Having made these arrangements with aself-possession that quite disconcerted the clergyman, he turned toexamine the rest of the company.

His first glance was arrested by the beauty of a young lady with lightbrown hair and gentle grey eyes, who sat near the fire. Beside her, on alower chair, was a small, lean, and very restless young woman with keendark eyes staring defiantly from a worn face. These two were attended bya jovial young gentleman with curly auburn hair, who was twanging abanjo, and occasionally provoking an exclamation of annoyance from therestless girl by requesting her opinion of his progress in tuning theinstrument. Near them stood a tall man, dark and handsome. He seemedunused to his present circumstances, and contemptuous, not of thecompany nor the object for which they were assembled, but in theabstract, as if habitual contempt were part of his nature.

The clergyman, who had just conducted to the platform an elderlyprofessor in a shabby frock coat, followed by three well-washedchildren, each of whom carried a concertina, now returned and sat downbeside a middle-aged lady, who made herself conspicuous by using a goldframed eyeglass so as to convey an impression that she was anexceedingly keen observer.

"It is fortunate that the evening is so fine," said the clergyman toher.

"Yes, is it not, Mr. Lind?"

"My throat is always affected by bad weather, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. Ishall be so handicapped by the inevitable comparison of my elocutionwith yours, that I am glad the weather is favorable to me, though thecomparison is not."

"No," said Mrs. Fairfax, with decision. "I am not in the least anorator. I can repeat a poem: that is all. Oh! I hope I have not brokenmy glasses." They had slipped from her nose to the floor. Conolly pickedthem up and straightened them with one turn of his fingers.

"No harm done, madam," said he, with a certain elocutionary correctness,and rather in the strong voice of the workshop than the subdued one ofthe drawing-room, handing the glasses to her ceremoniously as he spoke.

"Thank you. You are very kind, very kind indeed."

Conolly bowed, and turned again toward the other group.

"Who is that?" whispered Mrs. Fairfax to the clergyman.

"Some young man who attracted the attention of the Countess by hissinging. He is only a workman."

"Indeed! Where did she hear him sing?"

"In her son's laboratory, I believe. He came there to put up someelectrical machinery, and sang into a telephone for their amusement. Youknow how fond Lord Jasper is of mechanics. Jasper declares that he is agenius as an electrician. Indeed it was he, rather than the Countess,who thought of getting him to sing for us."

"How very interesting! I saw that he was clever when he spoke to me.There is so much in trifles--in byplay, Mr. Lind. Now, his manner ofpicking up my glass had his entire history in it. You will also see itin the solid development of his head. That young man deserves to beencouraged."

"You are very generous, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. It would not be well toencourage him too much, however. You must recollect that he is not usedto society. Injudicious encouragement might perhaps lead him to forgethis real place in it."

"I do not agree with you, Mr. Lind. You do not read human nature as Ido. You know that I am an expert. I see men as he sees a telegraphinstrument, quite uninfluenced by personal feeling."

"True, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. But the heart is deceitful above all thingsand des--at least I should say--er. That is, you will admit that thefinest perception may err in its estimate of the inscrutable work of theAlmighty."

"Doubtless. But really, Mr. Lind, human beings are _so_ shallow! Iassure you there is nothing at all inscrutable about them to a trainedanalyst of character. It may be a gift, perhaps; but people's minds areto me only little machines made up of superficial motives."

"I say," said the young gentleman with the banjo, interrupting them:"have you got a copy of 'Rose softly blooming' there?"

"I!" said Mrs. Fairfax. "No, certainly not."

"Then it's all up with the concert. We have forgotten Marian's music;and there is nothing for Nelly--I beg pardon, I mean Miss McQuinch--toplay from. She is above playing by ear."

"I _cannot_ play by ear," said the restless young lady, angrily.

"If you will sing 'Coal black Rose' instead, Marian, I can accompany youon the banjo, and back you up in the chorus. The Wandsworthers--if theysurvive the concertinas--will applaud the change as one man."

"It is so unkind to joke about it," said the beautiful young lady. "Whatshall I do? If somebody will vamp an accompaniment, I can get on verywell without any music. But if I try to play for myself I shall breakdown."

"I dont wish to intrude where I have no business," said Conolly quietlyto the clergyman; "but I can play that lady's accompaniment, if she willallow me."

The clergyman was too much afraid of Conolly by this time--he did notknow why--to demur. "I am sure she will not object," he said, pretendingto be relieved by the offer. "Your services will be most acceptable.Excuse me for one moment, whilst I inform Miss Lind."

He crossed the room to the lady, and said in a lower tone, "I think Ihave succeeded in arranging the matter, Marian. That man says he willplay for you."

"I hope he _can_ play," said Marian doubtfully. "Who is he?"

"It is Conolly. Jasper's man."

Miss Lind's eyes lighted. "Is that he?" she whispered, glancingcuriously across the room at him. "Bring him and introduce him to us."

"Is that necessary?" said the tall man, without lowering his voicesufficiently to prevent Conolly from hearing him. The clergymanhesitated.

"It is quite necessary: I do not know what he must think of us already,"said Marian, ashamed, and looking apprehensively at Conolly. He wasstaring with a policemanlike expression at the tall man, who, after avain attempt to ignore him, had eventually to turn away. The Rev. Mr.Lind then led the electrician forward, and avoided a formal presentationby saying with a simper: "Here is Mr. Conolly, who will extricate usfrom all our difficulties."

Miss McQuinch nodded. Miss Lind bowed. Marmaduke shook handsgood-naturedly, and retired somewhat abashed, thrumming his banjo. Justthen a faint sound of clapping was followed by the return of the quartetparty, upon which Miss Lind rose and moved hesitatingly toward theplatform. The tall man offered his hand.

"Nonsense, Sholto," said she, laughing. "They will expect you to dosomething if you appear with me."

"Allow _me_, Marian," said the clergyman, as the tall man, offended,bowed and stood aside. She, pretending not to notice her brother, turnedtoward Conolly, who at once passed the Rev. George, and led her to theplatform.

"The original key?" he enquired, as they mounted the steps.

"I dont know," she said, alarmed.

For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, "What is the highest noteyou can sing?"

"I can sing A sometimes--only when I am alone. I dare not attempt itbefore people."

Conolly sat down, knowing now that Miss Lind was a commonplace amateur.He had been contrasting her with his sister, greatly to thedisparagement of his home life; and he was disappointed to find the ladybreak down where the actress would have succeeded so well. Consolinghimself with the reflexion that if Miss Lind could not rap out a B flatlike Susanna, neither could she rap out an oath, he played theaccompaniment much better than Marian sang the song. Meanwhile, MissMcQuinch, listening jealously in the green-room, hated herself for herinferior skill.

"Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin," observedMarmaduke to her.

"Better a reserved man who can do something than a sulky one who can donothing," she said, glancing at the tall man, with whom the clergymanwas nervously striving to converse.

"I do not care for music," said Douglas. "I lack the maudlin dispositionin which the taste usually thrives."

Miss McQuinch gave an expressive snap, but said nothing; and theconversation dropped until Miss Lind had sung her song, and received around of respectful but not enthusiastic applause.

"Thank you, Mr. Conolly," she said, as she left the platform. "I amafraid that Spohr's music is too good for the people here. Dont youthink so?"

"Not a bit of it," replied Conolly. "There is nothing so very particularin Spohr. But he requires very good singing--better than he is worth."

Miss Lind colored, and returned in silence to her seat beside MissMcQuinch, feeling that she had exposed herself to a remark that nogentleman would have made.

"Now then, Nelly," said Marmaduke: "the parson is going to call time.Keep up your courage. Come, get up, get up."

"Do not be so boisterous, Duke," said Marian. "It is bad enough to haveto face an audience without being ridiculed beforehand."

"Marian," said Marmaduke, "if you think Nelly will hammer a love ofmusic into the British workman, you err. Lots of them get their livingby hammering, and they will most likely resent feminine competition.Bang! There she goes. Pity the sorrows of a poor old piano, and let ushope its trembling limbs wont come through the floor."

"Really, Marmaduke," said Marian, impatiently, "you are excessivelyfoolish. You are like a boy fresh from school."

Marmaduke, taken aback by her sharp tone, gave a long whispered whistle,and pretended to hide under the table. He had a certain gift of drollerywhich made it difficult not to laugh even at his most foolish antics,and Marian was giving way in spite of herself when she found Douglasbending over her and saying, in a low voice:

"You are tired of this place. The room is very draughty: I fear it willgive you cold. Let me drive you home now. An apology can be made forwhatever else you are supposed to do for these people. Let me get yourcloak and call a cab."

Marian laughed. "Thank you, Sholto," she said; "but I assure you I amquite happy. Pray do not look offended because I am not so uncomfortableas you think I ought to be."

"I am glad you are happy," said Douglas in his former cold tone."Perhaps my presence is rather a drawback to your enjoyment thanotherwise."

"I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourselfto the circumstances, and be agreeable?"

"I am not conscious of being disagreeable."

"I did not mean that. Only I do not like to see you making an enemy ofevery one in the room, and forcing me to say things that I know musthurt you."

"To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent,Marian. To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in themood to be lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject ishardly worth pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shallgratify you by withdrawing?"

"Yes," said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him.Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, "Do not try againto browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto."

Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinchreappeared.

"Well, Nelly," said Marmaduke: "is there any piano left?"

"Not much," she replied, with a sullen laugh. "I never played worse inmy life."

"Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?"

"Both."

"I believe your song comes next," said the clergyman to Conolly, who hadbeen standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch's performance.

"Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment," said theclergyman, weakly.

Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, "I can do only one thing ata time, sir."

"Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen," said theclergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a veryperceptible nudge.

"I'll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman myself," saidConolly. "I had rather leave the song out than accompany myself."

"Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind," said MissMcQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; "but I have disgracedmyself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the songif I played the accompaniment."

"I think you might try, Nell," said Marmaduke, reproachfully.

"I might," retorted Miss McQuinch; "but I wont."

"If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy,"said Marmaduke.

Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. "I am a very indifferentplayer," she said; "but since no better is to be had, I will venture--ifMr. Conolly will trust me."

Conolly bowed.

"If you would rather not," said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, "Iwill try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong."

"I think Miss McQuinch had better play," said Douglas.

Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to theplatform with her without further ado. She was not a sympatheticaccompanist; but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it.She felt too that she was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lessonin courtesy which might stand him in stead when he next accompanied"Rose, softly blooming." She was a little taken aback on finding that henot only had a rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge,an accomplished singer.

"Really," she said as they left the platform, "you sing mostbeautifully."

"One would hardly have expected it," he said, with a smile.

Marian, annoyed at having this side of her compliment exposed, did notreturn the smile, and went to her chair in the green-room without takingany further notice of him.

"I congratulate you," said Mrs. Leith Fairfax to Conolly, looking athim, like all the rest except Douglas, with a marked access of interest."Ah! what wonderful depth there is in Gounod's music!"

He assented politely with a movement of his head.

"I know nothing at all about music," said Mrs. Fairfax.

"Very few people do."

"I mean technically, of course," she said, not quite pleased.

"Of course."

A tremendous burst of applause here followed the conclusion of the firstverse of "Uncle Ned."

"_Do_ come and listen, Nelly," said Marian, returning to the door. Mrs.Fairfax and Conolly presently went to the door too.

"Would you not like to help in the chorus, Nelly?" said Marian in a lowvoice, as the audience began to join uproariously in the refrain.

"Not particularly," said Miss McQuinch.

"Sholto," said Marian, "come and share our vulgar joy. We want you tojoin in the chorus."

"Thank you," said Douglas, "I fear I am too indifferent a vocalist to dojustice to the occasion."

"Sing with Mr. Conolly and you cannot go wrong," said Miss McQuinch.

"Hush," said Marian, interposing quickly lest Douglas should retort."There is the chorus. Shall we really join?"

Conolly struck up the refrain without further hesitation. Marian sangwith him. Mrs. Fairfax and the clergyman looked furtively at oneanother, but forbore to swell the chorus. Miss McQuinch sang a few wordsin a piercing contralto voice, and then stopped with a gesture ofimpatience, feeling that she was out of tune. Marian, with only Conollyto keep her in countenance, felt relieved when Marmaduke, thriceencored, entered the room in triumph. Whilst he was beingcongratulated, Douglas turned to Miss McQuinch, who was pretending toignore Marmaduke's success.

"I hope, Miss McQuinch," he said in a low tone, "that you will be ableto relieve Marian at the piano next time. You know how she dislikeshaving to play accompaniments for strangers."

"How mean it is of you to be jealous of a plumber!" said Miss McQuinch,with a quick glance at him which she did not dare to sustain, sofiercely did he return it.

When she looked again, he seemed unconscious of her presence, and wasbuttoning his overcoat.

"Really going at last, Sholto?" said Marian. Douglas bowed.

"I told you you wouldnt be able to stand it, old man," said Marmaduke."Mrs. Bluestockings wont be pleased with you for not staying to hear herrecite." This referred to Mrs. Fairfax, who had just gone upon theplatform.

"Good night," said Miss McQuinch, shortly, anxious to test how far hewas offended, but unwilling to appear solicitous for a reconciliation.

"Until to-morrow, farewell," he said, approaching Marian, who gave himher hand with a smile: Conolly looking thoughtfully at him meanwhile. Heleft the room; and so, Mrs. Fairfax having gone to the platform torecite, quiet prevailed for a few minutes.

"Shall I have the pleasure of playing the accompaniment to your nextsong?" said Conolly, sitting down near Marian.

"Thank you," said Marian, shrinking a little: "I think Miss McQuinchknows it by heart." Then, still anxious to be affable to the workman,she added, "Lord Jasper says you are a great musician."

"No, I am an electrician. Music is not my business: it is my amusement."

"You have invented something very wonderful, have you not?"

"I have discovered something, and I am trying to invent a means ofturning it to account. It will be only a cheap electro-motor if it comesto anything."

"You must explain that to me some day, Mr. Conolly. I'm afraid I dontknow what an electro-motor means."

"I ought not to have mentioned it," said Conolly. "It is so constantlyin my mind that I am easily led to talk about it. I try to preventmyself, but the very effort makes me think of it more than ever."

"But I like to hear you talk about it," said Marian. "I always try tomake people talk shop to me, and of course they always repay me bytrying to keep on indifferent topics, of which I know as much--or aslittle--as they."

"Well, then," said Conolly, "an electro-motor is only an engine fordriving machinery, just like a steam engine, except that it is worked byelectricity instead of steam. Electric engines are so imperfect now thatsteam ones come cheaper. The man who finds out how to make the electricengine do what the steam engine now does, and do it cheaper, will makehis fortune if he has his wits about him. Thats what I am driving at."

Miss Lind, in spite of her sensible views as to talking shop, was notinterested in the least. "Indeed!" she said. "How interesting that mustbe! But how did you find time to become so perfect a musician, and tosing so exquisitely?"

"I picked most of it up when I was a boy. My grandfather was an Irishsailor with such a tremendous voice that a Neapolitan music masterbrought him out in opera as a _buffo_. When he had roared his voiceaway, he went into the chorus. My father was reared in Italy, and lookedmore Italian than most genuine natives. He had no voice; so he becamefirst accompanist, then chorus master, and finally trainer for theoperatic stage. He speculated in an American tour; married out there;lost all his money; and came over to England, when I was only twelve, toresume his business at Covent Garden. I stayed in America, and wasapprenticed to an electrical engineer. I worked at the bench there forsix years."

"I suppose your father taught you to sing."

"No. He never gave me a lesson. The fact is, Miss Lind, he was a capitalman to teach stage tricks and traditional renderings of old operas; butonly the exceptionally powerful voices survived his method of teaching.He would have finished my career as a singer in two months if he hadtroubled himself to teach me. Never go to Italy to learn singing."

"I fear you are a cynic. You ought either to believe in your father orelse be silent about him."

"Why?"

"Why! Surely we should hide the failings of those we love? I canunderstand now how your musical and electrical tastes became mixed up;but you should not confuse your duties. But please excuse me:"(Conolly's eyes had opened a little wider) "I am lecturing you, withoutthe least right to. It is a failing of mine which you must not mind."

"Not at all. Youve a right to your opinion. But the world would neverget on if every practical man were to stand by his father's mistakes.However, I brought it on myself by telling you a long story. This is thefirst opportunity I ever had of talking about myself to a lady, and Isuppose I have abused it."

Marian laughed. "We had better stop apologizing to one another," shesaid. "What about the accompaniments to our next songs?"

"I say, Nelly," he whispered, "Marian and that young man seem to begetting on uncommonly well together. She looks sentimentally happy, andhe seems pleased with himself. Dont you feel jealous?"

"Jealous! Why should I be?"

"Out of pure cussedness. Not that you care for the electric man, butbecause you hate any one to fall in love with any one else when you areby."

"I wish you would go away."

"Why? Dont you like me?"

"I _loathe_ you. Now, perhaps you understand me."

"That's a nice sort of thing to say to a fellow," said Marmaduke,roused. "I have a great mind to bring you to your senses as Douglasdoes, by not speaking to you for a week."

"I wish you would let me come to my senses by not speaking to me atall."

"Oh! Well, I am off; but mind, Nelly, I am offended. We are no longer onspeaking terms. Look as contemptuous as you please: you will be sorrywhen you think over this. Remember: you said you loathed me."

"So I do," said Elinor, stubbornly.

"Very good," said Marmaduke, turning his back on her. Just then theconcertinists returned from the platform, and a waiter appeared withrefreshments, which the clergyman invited Marmaduke to assist him indispensing. Conolly, considering the uncorking of bottles of soda watera sufficiently skilled labor to be more interesting than making smalltalk, went to the table and busied himself with the corkscrew.

"Well, Nelly," said Marian, drawing her chair close to Miss McQuinch,and speaking in a low voice, "what do you think of Jasper's workman?"

"Not much," replied Elinor, shrugging her shoulders. "He is veryconceited, and very coarse."

"Do you really think so? I expected to find you delighted with hisunconventionality. I thought him rather amusing."

"I thought him extremely aggravating. I hate to have to speak to peopleof that sort."

"Then you consider him vulgar," said Marian, disappointed.

"N--no. Not vulgarer than anybody else. He couldnt be that."

"Sherry and soda, Marian?" said Marmaduke, approaching.

"No, thank you, Marmaduke. Get Nelly something."

"As Miss McQuinch and I are no longer on speaking terms, I leave her tothe care of yonder scientific amateur, who has just refused, on teetotalgrounds, to pledge the Rev. George in a glass of eighteen shillingsherry."

"Dont be silly, Marmaduke. Bring Nelly some soda water."

"Do nothing of the sort," said Miss McQuinch.

Marmaduke bowed and retired.

"What is the matter between you and Duke now?" said Marian.

"Nothing. I told him I loathed him."

"Oh! I dont wonder at his being a little huffed. How _can_ you saythings you dont mean?"

"I do mean them. What with his folly, Sholto's mean conceit, George'shypocrisy, that man's vulgarity, Mrs. Fairfax's affectation, yourinsufferable amiability, and the dreariness of those concertina people,I feel so wretched that I could find it in my heart to loathe anybodyand everybody."

"Nonsense, Nelly! You are only in the blues."

"_Only_ in the blues!" said Miss McQuinch sarcastically. "Yes. That isall."

After this the conversation flagged. Mrs. Fairfax grew loquacious underthe influence of sherry, but presently a reaction set in, and she beganto yawn. Miss McQuinch, when her turn came, played worse than before,and the audience, longing for another negro melody, paid littleattention to her. Marian sang a religious song, which was received withthe respect usually accorded to a dull sermon. The clergyman read acomic essay of his own composition, and Mrs. Fairfax recited an ode toMazzini. The concertinists played an arrangement of a quartet by Onslow.The working men and women of Wandsworth gaped, and those who sat nearthe door began to slip out. Even Miss McQuinch pitied them.

"The idea of expecting them to be grateful for an infliction likethat!" she said. "What do people of their class care about Onslow'squartets?"

"Do you think that people of any class, high or low, would be gratifiedby such an entertainment?" said Conolly, with some warmth. No one hadsufficient spirit left to reply.

At last the concertinists went home, and the reading drew to a close.Conolly, again accompanied by Marian, sang "Tom Bowling." The audienceawoke, cheered the singer heartily, and made him sing again. On hisreturn to the green-room, Miss McQuinch, much affected at the fate ofBowling, and indignant with herself for being so, stared defiantly atConolly through a film of tears. When Marmaduke went out, the peoplealso were so moved that they were ripe for laughter, and with roars ofmerriment forced him to sing three songs, in the choruses of which theyjoined. Eventually the clergyman had to bid them go home, as Mr. Lindhad given them all the songs he knew.

"I suppose you will not come with us, Duke," said Marian, when all wasover, and they were preparing to leave. "We can drop you at yourchambers if you like; but you will have to sit on the box. Mrs. LeithFairfax, George, Nelly, and I, will be a carriageful."

Marmaduke looked at his watch. "By Jove!" he cried, "it is only ten. Iforgot how early we began to-night. No thank you, Marian: I am not goingyour way; but you may take the banjo and keep it until I call. Ta ta!"

They all went out together; and the ladies, followed by the clergyman,entered their carriage and drove away, leaving Marmaduke and Conollystanding on the pavement. Having shared the success of the concert,each felt well disposed to the other.

"What direction are you going in?" said Marmaduke.

"Westminster Bridge or thereabouts," replied Conolly. "This place israther out of the way."

"Have you anything particular to do before you turn in for the night?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, old man. Lets take a hansom, and driveoff to the Bijou. We shall just be in time to see Lalage Virtue in theburlesque; and--look here! I'll introduce you to her: youre just thesort of chap she would like to know. Eh?"

Conolly looked at him, nodded, and burst out laughing. Marmaduke, whohad set him down as a cool, undemonstrative man, was surprised at hishilarity for a moment, but presently joined in it. Whilst they were bothlaughing a hansom appeared, and Conolly, recovering himself, hailed thedriver.

"We shall get on together, I see," said Marmaduke, jumping into the cab."Hallo! The Bijou Theatre, Soho, and drive as fast as you can afford tofor half a sovereign."

"Right you are, sir," replied the driver, whipping his horse.

The rattling of the cab silenced Conolly; but his companion persistedfor some time in describing the burlesque to which they were going, andparticularly the attractions of Mademoiselle Lalage Virtue, who enacteda principal character therein, and with whom he seemed to be in love.When they alighted at the theatre Marmaduke payed the cabman, andConolly took advantage of this to enter the theatre and purchase twostall tickets, an arrangement which Lind, suddenly recollecting his newfriend's position, disapproved of, but found it useless to protestagainst. He forgot it on hearing the voice of Lalage Virtue, who was atthat moment singing within; and he went to his stall with his eyesturned to the stage, treading on toes and stumbling as children commonlydo when they walk in one direction and look in another. An attendant,who seemed to know him, proffered a glass for hire. He took it, andleveled it at Mademoiselle Lalage, who was singing some trivial coupletsmuch better than they deserved. Catching sight of him presently, shegreeted him with a flash of her dark eye that made him writhe as thoughhis heart had received a fillip from a ponderable missile. She did notspare these roguish glances. They darted everywhere; and Conolly,looking about him to note their effect, saw rows of callow young faceswith parted lips and an expression which seemed to have been caught andfixed at the climax of a blissful chuckle. There were few women in thestalls, and the silly young faces were relieved only by stupid old ones.

The couplets ended amidst great applause. Marmaduke placed his glass onhis knees, and, clapping his hands vigorously, turned to his companionwith a triumphant smile, mutely inviting him to clamor for a repetitionof the air. But Conolly sat motionless, with his arms folded, his cheekflushed, and his brow lowered.

"You dont seem used to this sort of thing," said Lind, somewhatdisgusted.

"It was well sung," replied Conolly "--better than most of theseblackguards know."

"Then why dont you clap?"

"Because she is not giving herself any trouble. That sort of thing,from a woman of her talent, is too cheap to say 'thank you' for."

Marmaduke looked at him, and began to think that he was a priggishfellow after all. But as the burlesque went on, Mademoiselle Lalagecharmed away this disagreeable impression. She warbled in an amorousduet, and then sang the pleasures of champagne; tossing her head; wavinga gilt goblet; and, without the least appearance of effort, working hardto captivate those who were to be won by bold smiles and arch glances.She displayed her person less freely than her colleagues, being, notmore modest, but more skilful in the art of seduction. The slang thatserved for dialogue in her part was delivered in all sorts ofintonations, now demure and mischievous, anon strident and mock tragic.Marmaduke was delighted.

"What I like about her is that she is such a genuine little lady," hesaid, as her exit released his attention. "With all her go, she is nevera bit vulgar. Off the stage she is just the same. Not a spark ofaffectation about her. It is all natural."

"You know her, then?" said Conolly.

"I should think I do," replied Marmaduke, energetically. "You have noidea what a rattling sort she is."

"To you, who only see her occasionally, no doubt she gives--as arattling sort--a heightened charm to the order, the refinement, the--thebeauty of the home life which you can enjoy. Excuse my introducing sucha subject, Mr. Lind; but would you bring your cousin--the lady who sangto-night at the concert--to see this performance?"

"I would if she asked me to," said Marmaduke, somewhat taken aback.

"No doubt. But should you be surprised if she asked you?"

"Not a bit. Fine ladies are neither such fools nor such angels asyou--as some fellows think. Miss Lind's notion is to see everything. Andyet she is a thoroughly nice woman too. It is the same with Lalagethere. She is not squeamish, and she is full of fun; but she knows aswell as anybody how to pull up a man who doesnt behave himself."

"And you actually think that this Lalage Virtue is as respectable awoman as your cousin?"

"Oh, I dont bother myself about it. I shouldnt have thought of comparingthem if you hadnt started the idea. Marian's way is not the other one'sway, and each of them is all right in her own way. Look here. I'llintroduce you to Lalage. We can pick up somebody else to make a partyfor you, and finish with a supper at Jellicoe's."

"Are you privileged to introduce whom you like to Miss Lalage?"

"Well, as to that, she doesnt stand much on ceremony; but then, you see,that cuts two ways. The mere introducing is no difficulty; but itdepends on the man himself whether he gets snubbed afterward or not. Bythe bye, you must understand, if you dont know it already, that Lalageis as correct in her morals as a bishop's wife. I just tell you, becausesome fellows seem to think that a woman who goes on the stage leaves herpropriety behind as a matter of course. In fact, I rather thought somyself once. Not that you wont find loose women there as well asanywhere else, if you want to. But dont take it for granted, that'sall."

"Well," said Conolly, "you may introduce me, and we can consider thesupper afterwards. Would it be indiscreet to ask how you obtained yourown introduction? You dont, I suppose, move in the same circle as she;and if she is as particular as your own people, she can hardly formpromiscuous acquaintanceships."

"A man at the point of death does not stop to think about etiquet. Shesaved my life."

"Saved your life! That sounds romantic."

"There was precious little romance about it, though I owe my being alivenow to her presence of mind. It happened in the rummest way. I wasbrought behind the scenes one night by a Cambridge chum. We werepainting the town a bit red. We were not exactly drunk; but we were notparticularly sober either; and I was very green at that time, and made afool of myself about Lalage: staring; clapping like a madman in themiddle of her songs; getting into the way of everybody and everything,and so on. Then a couple of fellows we knew turned up, and we gotchatting at the wing with some girls. At last a fellow came in with abag of cherries; and we began trying that old trick--you know--takingthe end of a stalk between your lips and drawing the cherry into themouth without touching it with your hand, you know. I tried it; and Iwas just getting the cherry into my mouth when some idiot gave me adrive in the waistcoat. I made a gulp; and the cherry stuck fast in mythroat. I began to choke. Nobody knew what to do; and while they werepushing me about, some thinking I was only pretending, the girlsbeginning to get frightened, and the rest shouting at me to swallow theconfounded thing, I was getting black in the face, and my head wasbursting: I could see nothing but red spots. It was a near thing, I tellyou. Suddenly I got a shake; and then a little fist gave me a stunningthump on the back, that made the cherry bounce out against my palate. Igasped and coughed like a grampus: the stalk was down my throat still.Then the little hand grabbed my throat and made me open my mouth wide;and the cherry was pulled out, stalk and all. It was Lalage who did thiswhile the rest were gaping helplessly. I dont remember what followed. Ithought I had fainted; but it appears that I nearly cried, and talkedthe most awful nonsense to her. I suppose the choking made mehysterical. However, I distinctly recollect the stage manager bullyingthe girls, and turning us all out. I was very angry with myself forbeing childish, as they told me I had been; and when I got back toCambridge I actually took to reading. A few months afterward I madeanother trip to town, and went behind the scenes again. She recognizedme, and chaffed me about the cherry. I jumped at my chance; I improvedthe acquaintance; and now I know her pretty well."

"You doubt whether any of the ladies that were with us at the concertwould have been equally useful in such an emergency?"

"I should think I do doubt it, my boy. Hush! Now that the ballet isover, we are annoying people by talking."

"You are right," replied Conolly. "Aha! Here is Miss Lalage again."

Marmaduke raised his opera-glass to his eyes, eager for another smilefrom the actress. He seemed about to be gratified; for her glance wastravelling toward him along the row of stalls. But it was arrested byConolly, on whom she looked with perceptible surprise and dismay. Lind,puzzled, turned toward his companion, and found him smiling maliciouslyat Mademoiselle Lalage, who recovered her vivacity with an effort, andcontinued her part with more nervousness than he had ever seen herdisplay before.

Shortly before the curtain fell, they left the theatre, and re-enteredit by the stage door.

"Queer place, isnt it?" said Lind.

Conolly nodded, but went forward like one well accustomed to the dingylabyrinth of old-fashioned stages. Presently they came upon Lalage. Shewas much heated by her exertions, thickly painted, and very angry.

"Well?" she said quarrelsomely.

Marmaduke, perceiving that her challenge was not addressed to him, butto Conolly, looked from one to the other, mystified.

"I have come to see you act at last," said Conolly.

"You might have told me you were coming. I could have got you a stall,although I suppose you would have preferred to throw away your moneylike a fool."

"I must admit, my dear," said Conolly, "that I could have spent it tomuch greater advantage."

"Indeed! and you!" she said, turning to Lind, whose deepening colorbetrayed his growing mortification: "what is the matter with _you_?"

"I have played a trick on your friend," said Conolly. "He suggested thisvisit; and I did not tell him of the relation between us. Finding us onterms of familiarity, if not of affection, he is naturally surprised."

"As I have never tried to meddle with your private affairs," saidMarmaduke to Lalage, "I need not apologize for not knowing your husband.But I regret----"

The actress laughed in spite of her vexation. "Why, you silly oldthing!" she exclaimed, "he is no more my husband than you are!"

Conolly laughed. "However that may turn out," he said, "we are evidentlynot in the mood for further conviviality, so let us postpone the supperto some other occasion. May I advise you not to wait until Susannareturns. There is no chance of a reconciliation to-night."

"I dont want any reconciliation."

"Of course not; I had forgotten," replied Conolly, placably. "Then Isuppose you will go before she has finished dressing."

Conolly waited a moment, so that he might not overtake Lind. He thenwent for a cab, and waited at the stage door until his sister came down,frowning. She got into the hansom without a word.

"Why dont you have a brougham, instead of going about in cabs?" he said,as they drove away.

"Because I like a hansom better than a brougham; and I had rather payfour shillings a night and travel comfortably, than thirteen and be halfsuffocated."

"I thought the appearance of----"

"There is no use in your talking to me. I cant hear a word you say goingover these stones."

When they were alone together in their drawing-room in Lambeth, he,after walking up and down the room a few times, and laughing softly tohimself, began to sing the couplets from the burlesque.

"Are you aware," she inquired, "that it is half past twelve, and thatthe people of the house are trying to sleep."

"True," said he, desisting. "By the bye, I, too, have had my triumphsthis evening. I shared the honors of the concert with Master Lind, whowas so delighted that he insisted on bringing me off to the Bijou. Heloves you to distraction, poor devil!"

"Yes: you made a nice piece of mischief there. Where is he?"

"Gone away in a rage, swearing never to speak to you again."

"Hm! And so his name is Lind, is it?"

"Didnt you know?"

"No, or I should have told you when I read the program this evening. Theyoung villain pretended that his name was Marmaduke Sharp."

"Ah! The name reminds me of one of his cousins, a little spitfire thatsnaps at every one who presumes to talk to her."

"His cousins! Oh, of course; you met them at the concert. What are theylike? Are they swells?"

"Yes, they seem to be. There were only two cousins, Miss McQuinch and ayoung woman named Marian, blonde and rather good looking. There was abrother of hers there, but he is only a parson, and a tall fellow namedDouglas, who made rather a fool of himself. I could not make him outexactly."

"Did they snub you?"

"I dont know. Probably they tried. Are you intimate with many of ouryoung nobility under assumed names?"

"Steal a few more marches to the Bijou, and perhaps you will find out."

"Good-night! Pardon my abrupt departure, but you are not the verysweetest of Susannas to-night."

"If he will pay us a visit here, and witness the working of perfectfrankness without affection, and perfect liberty without refinement, hemay find reason to conclude that it matters a good deal. Good-night."

CHAPTER II

Marian Lind lived at Westbourne Terrace, Paddington, with her father,the fourth son of a younger brother of the Earl of Carbury. Mr. ReginaldHarrington Lind, at the outset of his career, had no object in lifeexcept that of getting through it as easily as possible; and this heunderstood so little how to achieve that he suffered himself to bemarried at the age of nineteen to a Lancashire cotton spinner's heiress.She bore him three children, and then eloped with a professor ofspiritualism, who deserted her on the eve of her fourth confinement, inthe course of which she caught scarlet fever and died. Her childsurvived, but was sent to a baby farm and starved to death in the usualmanner. Her husband, disgusted by her behavior (for she had beenintroduced by him to many noblemen and gentlemen, his personal friends,some one at least of whom, on the slightest encouragement, would, hefelt sure, have taken the place of the foreign charlatan she haddisgraced him by preferring), consoled himself for her bad taste byentering into her possessions, which comprised a quantity of newjewellery, new lace, and feminine apparel, and an income of nearly seventhousand pounds a year. After this, he became so welcome in society thathe could have boasted with truth at the end of any July that there werefew marriageable gentlewomen of twenty-six and upward in London who hadnot been submitted to his inspection with a view to matrimony. Butfinding it easy to delegate the care of his children to schoolprincipals and hospitable friends, he concluded that he had nothing togain and much comfort to lose by adding a stepmother to hisestablishment; and, after some time, it became the custom to say of Mr.Lind that the memory of his first wife kept him single. Thus, whilst hissons were drifting to manhood through Harrow and Cambridge, and hisdaughter passing from one relative's house to another's on a continualround of visits, sharing such private tuition as the cousins with whomshe happened to be staying happened to be receiving just then, he livedat his club and pursued the usual routine of a gentleman-bachelor inLondon.

In the course of time, Reginald Lind, the eldest child, entered thearmy, and went to India with his regiment. His brother George, lessstolid, weaker, and more studious, preferred the Church. Marian, theyoungest, from being constantly in the position of a guest, had earlyacquired habits of self-control and consideration for others, andescaped the effects, good and evil, of the subjection in which childrenare held by the direct authority of their parents.

Of the numerous domestic circles of her father's kin, that with whichshe was the least familiar, because it was the poorest, had sprung fromthe marriage of one of her father's sisters with a Wiltshire gentlemannamed Hardy McQuinch, who had a small patrimony, a habit of farming, anda love of hunting. In the estimation of the peasantry, who would notassociate lands, horses, and a carriage, with want of money, he was arich man; but Mrs. McQuinch found it hard to live like a lady on theirincome, and had worn many lines into her face by constantly and vainlywishing that she could afford to give a ball every season, to get a newcarriage, and to appear at church with her daughters in new dressesoftener than twice a year. Her two eldest girls were plump and pleasant,good riders and hearty eaters; and she had reasonable hopes of marryingthem to prosperous country gentlemen.

Elinor, her third and only other child, was one of her troubles. At anearly age it was her practice, once a week or thereabouts, to disappearin the forenoon; be searched anxiously for all day; and return with atorn frock and dirty face at about six o'clock in the afternoon. She wasstubborn, rebellious, and passionate under reproof or chastisement:governesses had left the house because of her; and from one school shehad run away, from another eloped with a choir boy who wrote verses. Himshe deserted in a fit of jealousy, quarter of an hour after her escapefrom school. The only one of her tastes that conduced to the peace ofthe house was for reading; and even this made her mother uneasy; for thebooks she liked best were fit, in Mrs. McQuinch's opinion, for thebookcase only. Elinor read openly what she could obtain by asking, suchas Lamb's Tales from Shakespear, and The Pilgrim's Progress. The ArabianNights Entertainments were sternly refused her; so she read them bystealth; and from that day there was always a collection of books,borrowed from friends, or filched from the upper shelf in the library,beneath her mattress. Nobody thought of looking there for them; and evenif they had, they might have paused to reflect on the consequences ofbetraying her. Her eldest sister having given her a small workbox on hereleventh birthday, had the present thrown at her head two days later forreporting to her parents that Nelly's fondness for sitting in a certainsecluded summer-house was due to her desire to read Lord Byron's poetryunobserved. Miss Lydia's forehead was severely cut; and Elinor, thoughbitterly remorseful, not only refused to beg pardon for her fault, butshattered every brittle article in the room to which she was confinedfor her contumacy. The vicar, on being consulted, recommended that sheshould be well whipped. This counsel was repugnant to Hardy McQuinch,but he gave his wife leave to use her discretion in the matter. Themother thought that the child ought to be beaten into submission; butshe was afraid to undertake the task, and only uttered a threat, whichwas received with stubborn defiance. This was forgotten next day whenElinor, exhausted by a week of remorse, terror, rage, and suspense,became dangerously ill. When she recovered, her parents were moreindulgent to her, and were gratified by finding her former passionateresistance replaced by sulky obedience. Five years elapsed, and Elinorbegan to write fiction. The beginning of a novel, and many incoherentverses imitated from Lara, were discovered by her mother, and burnt byher father. This outrage she never forgave. She was unable to make herresentment felt, for she no longer cared to break glass and china. Shefeared even to remonstrate lest she should humiliate herself by burstinginto tears, as, since her illness, she had been prone to do in the leastagitation. So she kept silence, and ceased to speak to either of herparents except when they addressed questions to her. Her father wouldneither complain of this nor confess the regret he felt for his hastydestruction of her manuscripts; but, whilst he proclaimed that he wouldburn every scrap of her nonsense that might come into his hands, he tookcare to be blind when he surprised her with suspicious bundles offoolscap, and snubbed his wife for hinting that Elinor was secretlydisobeying him. Meanwhile her silent resentment never softened, and thelife of the family was embittered by their consciousness of it. It neveroccurred to Mrs. McQuinch, an excellent mother to her two eldestdaughters, that she was no more fit to have charge of the youngest thana turtle is to rear a young eagle. The discomfort of their relationsnever shook her faith in their "naturalness." Like her husband and thevicar, she believed that when God sent children he made their parentsfit to rule them. And Elinor resented her parents' tyranny, as she feltit to be, without dreaming of making any allowances for their being in afalse position towards her.

One morning a letter from London announced that Mr. Lind had taken ahouse in Westbourne Terrace, and intended to live there permanently withhis daughter. Elinor had not come down to breakfast when the post came.

"Yes," said Mrs. McQuinch, when she had communicated the news: "I knewthere was something the matter when I saw Reginald's handwriting. Itmust be fully eighteen months since I heard from him last. I am veryglad he has settled Marian in a proper home, instead of living like abachelor and leaving her to wander about from one house to another. Iwish we could have afforded to ask her down here oftener."

"Here is a note from Marian, addressed to Nelly," said Lydia, who hadbeen examining the envelope.

"To Nelly!" said Mrs. McQuinch, vexed. "I think she should have invitedone of you first."

"Perhaps it is not an invitation," said Jane.

"What else is it likely to be, child?" said Mrs. McQuinch. Then, as shethought how much pleasanter her home would be without Elinor, sheadded, "After all, it will do Nelly good to get away from here. Sheneeds change, I think. I wish she would come down. It is too bad of herto be always late like this."

Elinor came in presently, wearing a neglected black gown; her face pale;her eyes surrounded by dark circles; her black hair straggling in wispsover her forehead. Her sisters, dressed twinlike in white muslin andgold lockets, emphasized her by contrast. Being blond and gregarious,they enjoyed the reputation of being pretty and affectionate. They hadthriven in the soil that had starved Elinor.

"There's a letter for you from Marian," said Mrs. McQuinch.

"Thanks," said Elinor, indifferently, putting the note into her pocket.She liked Marian's letters, and kept them to read in her hours ofsolitude.

"What does she say?" said Mrs. McQuinch.

"I have not looked," replied Elinor.

"Well," said Mrs. McQuinch, plaintively, "I wish you _would_ look. Iwant to know whether she says anything about this letter from your uncleReginald."

Elinor plucked the note from her pocket, tore it open, and read it.Suddenly she set her face to hide some emotion from her family.

"Marian wants me to go and stay with her," she said. "They have taken ahouse."

"Poor Marian!" said Jane. "And will you go?"

"I will," said Elinor. "Have you any objection?"

"Oh dear, no," said Jane, smoothly.

"I suppose you will be glad to get away from your home," said Mrs.McQuinch, incontinently.

"Very glad," said Elinor. Mr. McQuinch, hurt, looked at her over hisnewspaper. Mrs. McQuinch was huffed.

"I dont know what you are to do for clothes," she said, "unless Lydiaand Jane are content to wear their last winter's dresses again thisyear."

"You need not be alarmed," said Elinor. "I dont want any clothes. I cango as I am."

"You dont know what you are talking about, child," said Mrs. McQuinch.

"A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald's drawing-room with thatdress on!" said Lydia.

"And your hair in that state!" added Jane.

"You should remember that there are others to be considered besidesyourself," said Lydia. "How would _you_ like _your_ guests to look likescarecrows?"

"How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park? Isuppose----"

"Here, here!" said Mr. McQuinch, putting down his paper. "Let us have nomore of this. What else do you need in the Park than a riding habit? Youhave that already. Whatever clothes you want you had better get inLondon, where you will get the proper things for your money."

"Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four pricesfor things she can get quite as good down here."

"I tell you I dont want anything," said Elinor impatiently. "It will betime enough to begrudge me some decent clothes when I ask for them."

"I dont begrudge----"

Mrs. McQuinch's husband interrupted her. "Thats enough, now, everybody.It's settled that she is to go, as she wants to. I will get her what isnecessary. Give me another egg, and talk about something else."

Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace. Marian had spenta month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor anexacting friend, always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous andsulky for days if one of her sisters, or any other little girl, engagedher cousin's attention long. On the other hand, Elinor's attachment wasidolatrous in its intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and moreapt to fear that she had disregarded Elinor's feelings than to takeoffence at her waywardness, their friendship endured after they wereparted. Their promises of correspondence were redeemed by Elinor withvery long letters at uncertain intervals, and by Marian with shorterepistles notifying all her important movements. Marian, often calledupon to defend her cousin from the charge of being a little shrew, wasled to dwell upon her better qualities. Elinor found in Marian what shehad never found at her own home, a friend, and in her uncle's house arefuge from that of her father, which she hated. She had been Marian'scompanion for four years when the concert took place at Wandsworth.

Next day they were together in the drawing-room at Westbourne Terrace:Marian writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technicalstudies, to which she had been incited by the shortcoming of herperformance on the previous night. She stopped on hearing a bell ring.

"What o'clock is it?" she said, after listening a moment. "Surely it istoo early for a visit."

"It is only half past two," replied Marian. "I hope it is not anybody. Ihave not half finished my correspondence."

"If you please, Miss," said a maid, entering, "Mr. Douglas wants to seeyou, and he wont come up."

"I suppose he expects you to go down and talk to him in the hall," saidElinor.

"He is in the dining-room, and wishes to see you most particular," saidthe maid.

"Tell him I will come down," said Marian.

"He heard me practising," said Elinor, "that is why he would not comeup. I am in disgrace, I suppose."

"Nonsense, Nelly! But indeed I have no doubt he has come to complain ofour conduct, since he insists on seeing me alone."

Miss McQuinch looked sceptically at Marian's guileless eyes, but resumedher technical studies without saying anything. Marian went to thedining-room, where she found Douglas standing near the window, tall andhandsome, frock coated and groomed to a spotless glossiness thatestablished a sort of relationship between him and the sideboard, thecondition of which did credit to Marian's influence over her housemaids.He looked intently at her as she bade him good morning.

"I have come to say something which I do not care to keep unsaid longerthan I can help; so I thought it better to come when I could hope tofind you alone. I hope I have not disturbed you. I have somethingrather important to say."

"You are the same as one of ourselves, of course, Sholto. But I believeyou delight in stiffness and ceremony. Will you not come upstairs?"

"I wish to speak to you privately. First, I have to apologize to you forwhat passed last night."

"Pray dont, Sholto: it doesnt matter. I am afraid we were rude to you."

"Pardon me. It is I who am in fault. I never before made an apology toany human being; and I should not do so now without a painful convictionthat I forgot what I owed to myself."

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself--I mean for never havingapologized before. I am quite sure you have not got through life withouthaving done at least one or two things that required an apology."

"I am sorry you hold that opinion of me."

"How is Brutus's paw?"

"Brutus!"

"Yes. That abrupt way of changing the subject is what Mrs. Fairfax callsa display of tact. I know it is very annoying; so you may talk aboutanything you please. But I really want to hear how the poor dog is."

"His paw is nearly healed."

"I'm so glad--poor old dear!"

"You are aware that I did not come here to speak of my mother's dog,Marian?"

"I supposed not," said Marian, with a smile. "But now that you have madeyour apology, wont you come upstairs? Nelly is there."

"I have something else to say--to you alone, Marian. I entreat you tolisten to it seriously." Marian looked as grave as she could. "Iconfess that in some respects I do not understand you; and before you